Page 41 of Shots on Net

“What?”

“Well, I was thinking it might be nice to hold your hand but I didn’t want to assume you’d be okay with that,” I tell him, watching the way his mouth is slowly curving upward into a smile. “There are a lot of people around.”

I’ve become a little more aware of the queer community in professional sports, thanks to Carter, so I tread lightly. I really have no idea how many people—if any—on his team know he’s bi, and I don’t want to be the one to out him by accident. Granted, we did just share a romantic dinner, but still better to be safe than sorry.

He huffs a laugh, pulling a hand from his pocket and holding it out to me. When I slide my palms against his, he maneuvers his fingers until they are threaded between mine. He’s got rough palms, calloused from hours spent in a gym, and his skin feels ridiculously warm in the cooler evening air. I smile; nobody who walks past us seems to care that two guys are holding hands.

“I don’t mind holding hands,” he says, and his fingers give mine a small squeeze. His larger hand almost completely engulfs mine. “You don’t have to ask.”

“Do…do your teammates know about you being bi?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, nonchalantly. “I told my parents and the team during my sophomore year. My parents didn’t seem to care, although they might not have been listening. It wasn’t a big deal for the team. Besides, Coach Mackenzie is literally fucking an NHL star so he primed the pump for me.”

“Oh my god,” I laugh, using our linked hands to shove him. “That’s cool, though. I didn’t realize that sexuality was such a big deal in professional sports. Silly, I guess, but I’d just never thought about it.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Carter says, firmly. “And I think it’s getting better. One day, nobody will give two shits who we’re with. All that will matter is how we play hockey”

We reach the end of the boardwalk and Carter steers us back around. It’s late—far later than I would usually stay out on a weeknight when I have class the next day—but going home has me feeling oddly melancholy. The night hasn’t felt that much different than our normal time together, other than the holding hands. It’s been easy. And I already know I don’t have to worry about Carter trying to kiss me when we get home, which feels like another weight has been lifted.

“We can do this again, sometime, right?” Unconsciously, my hand tightens on Carter’s and he glances over at me. “Go…out, I mean. On a date. And hold hands.”

He looks like he wants to smile so bad. “Yeah. I’d be bummed if we didn’t.”

“I do not want you to be bummed,” I joke, trying to tease the smile out for real.

The drive home is mostly silent, but it’s of the comfortable variety. A couple times I’ve glanced over and caught him looking happier than I’ve ever seen him. Warmth pools in my stomach; I wish we were still touching.

“It’s my weekend,” Carter says, as we idle on the driveway and wait for the garage door to open.

“What?” I say, distracted by thoughts of how to maneuver his hand back into mine.

“It’s my weekend,” he repeats, putting the car in park and unclicking his seatbelt. “For hanging out on Sunday.”

“Oh right, yeah, it is,” I agree, and raise my eyebrows at his smirk. He looks devious, all of a sudden. Narrowing my eyes, I open my mouth to ask him what he has planned, but he’s out of the car and rounding the hood before I can find the words. He pops open my door and gestures grandly for me to exit. “Why? What are we doing on Sunday?”

“It’s a surprise,” he admonishes, frowning at me as we walk inside and he flicks on the lights. “You know how it works.”

“Right, except when it’s my weekend I surprise you with things like the zoo, or a day at the beach. When it’s your Sunday, you surprise me with things like skydiving and nunchuck fighting.”

“We have done neither of those things,” he scoffs, but pauses and considers. “Although, both are valid options. Thanks for the ideas.”

Dropping my head back, I groan dramatically. Beside me, Carter sniggers. His hand brushes my arm, so lightly it’s barely a touch at all. Lifting my head, I look at him.

“You’ll have fun, I promise. Lots of hand holding,” he says, lips twitching and eyes bright. “And, uhm…thanks. For going out tonight and giving me a chance.”

He steps back as he says this, voice gruff with feelings he’s not used to expressing. It seems incredible that he can look at me and find something he likes. The urge to hug him is so strong, I dig my fingernails into my palms to hold myself back. I don’t want to get his hopes up that I might be ready for more before I am.

“Alright, I trust you,” I say, but make my tone as skeptical as I can manage it. He snorts, shaking his head in amusement. “Sunday MMA lessons it is.”

“It’s a date,” Carter says, dropping me a wink and ambling up the stairs.

Carter

“Absolutely freaking not,” Zeke says, halting so suddenly I’m barely able to stop without plowing into him.

“It’ll be fun, I promise,” I say, emphatically, as I place a gentle hand on his back and guide him toward the skate rental booth. “And look, no nunchucks in sight.”

He sends me a withering glance over his shoulder before looking back at the empty rink. We’re at a local indoor ice rink; it’s early enough on a Sunday that the ice is virtually empty. It’s a blessing—I know Zeke will be more comfortable learning without dozens of gawkers around. We step up to the skate rental and give them our shoe sizes. I’m able to pay without Zeke arguing, which is a testament to how nervous he must be. When we take a seat on one of the benches lining the outside of the rink, he bites his lip and stares out at the skaters.

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